


Over The Love

by cellard00rs



Series: CSAC series [13]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8834128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: Set within the CSAC AU's far flung future. For the first time in a long time, Stan and Preston celebrate their anniversary.





	

The knock sounds again and Stan approaches the door cautiously. He has his shotgun to one side and he’s ready to use it if necessary. Hell, he’ll fight who or whatever is at the door with his bare hands if he has to. He’ll do anything to protect the kids upstairs. He never thought of himself as the paternal type, but he’ll be damned if anything happens to Dipper or Mabel. They’re more than his charges for the summer – they’re his family. Family…something he hasn’t had in a long time. A very, very long time.

Something he had and lost and lost because he wasn’t on his guard, but he’s on it now, and he can’t think of any good reason why there’d be a knock at his door at one in the morning. And certainly not a knock that’s loud enough to wake him. It comes again, a succinct rapping and he holds his gun tighter as he carefully opens the door.

Opens it to see Preston Northwest standing there. Or, it would be better to say, leaning there. He’s resting a lot of his weight on the doorframe, one hand propping him up while the other clutches a bottle. A bottle that’s edging on empty and Stan knows exactly why when Preston slurs, “Happy anniversary.”

“Shit,” Stan grumbles and he sets the gun aside, glaring at Preston, “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

“Toldja,” Preston mumbles and goes to lift the bottle to his mouth but Stan snatches it away. It’s bourbon – an expensive brand, naturally – and Stan puts it to one side near the gun. Preston watches the bottle disappear and pouts, “Hey! Zat’s mine!”

“Well, it’s mine now,” Stan counters, “And ya ain’t answered my question. What the hell are you doing here, Northwest? Much less at one in the goddamn morning?”

“An’ I toldja…anniversary.”

“Bullshit. We haven’t celebrated our anniversary in years,” Stan grumbles and he inhales deeply, shaking his head, “Go home, Preston.”

“Can’t. Driver…driver…he,” Preston does some weird hand motions before edging closer to Stan, his warm, alcohol laden breath tickling his nose, “Gone. Don’t…’xpect me walk…do you?”

“You should. Might sober you up,” Stan sighs and Preston shoots him this puppy dog look that guts him. Stan scrubs his hands at his face, “Jesus…I should tell you to fuck off.”

“But…our ‘versary…”

“You want to get technical, that was _yesterday_ , Preston,” Stan corrects him and rolls his eyes because Preston is bobbing and weaving on his feet and it’s truly unfucking fair that even drunk, Preston smells great.

And just as bad, Preston’s in his sixties just like Stanley is, but he looks two decades younger. It’s not fair for someone to age so gracefully. Sure, Preston has some wrinkles, but they’re in all the right places. They just make his face look more distinguished. And his hair? Yeah, it has some grey, but not like Stanley’s. Stan’s hair is pure silver, while Preston just has those artful touches of grey near his temples and intersped throughout. The darker brown still dominates his scalp and Stan would accuse him of dyeing it, but he knows it’s probably just the bastard’s good genes.

“Yesterday,” Preston repeats the word like he’s never heard it before and he frowns, “Yesterday…kids…they showed us, huh?”

Stan pinches at the bridge of his nose because he can’t think of what to say. Other than Preston is right – Dipper, Mabel, Pacifica…they certainly showed them. Best as he can figure, somehow Dipper and Mabel uncovered the fact that Stan and Preston are married. Whether or not they knew anything about Ford remained unclear, but Stan’s pretty sure they don’t know anything. Mainly because the kids are too inquisitive not to have asked had they discovered it.

Regardless, they knew more than enough. They knew about Stan and Preston and then they roped Pacifica into pulling some ‘Parent Trap’ like shenanigans. And it could have worked. Hell, it almost _did_ work. But some pains run too deep and so the evening ended with Stan and Preston parting ways as per usual. Until now.

“Eh, they were just tryin’ to help. I probably shouldn’t let Dipper and Mabel have so much free reign of the place. If I hadn’t, they woulda never found out about us being hitched. Much less tried to get us to celebrate our anniversary.”

“Anniversary!” Preston crows as if he just remembered, “‘Minds me…reminds…”

Preston begins digging throughout his various pockets. He’s wearing a suit (what else is new?) albeit his normally tightly knotted tie hangs loosely around his neck. He scours through his jacket and his pants and finally he produces a box.  He holds it out to Stan, who eyes it, unimpressed, “And?”

“What…whadja mean ‘and’?” Preston snorts and then laughs like Stan’s said the funniest thing ever, “’S gift…anniversary gift.”

“And again, I say we haven’t celebrated our anniversary in decades. For fuck’s sake, I’m still amazed we ain’t divorced.”

Preston draws the gift back slightly, his mouth dropping open, “Divo-?”

“C’mon, Northwest. You telling me you never even thought about-?”

Preston shoves the gift at him, “Estranged, yes. Divorced?”

He shakes his head violently, standing up straighter, and Stan gets the impression that the mere mention of divorce has sobered him up considerably. Like it would be that bad. Aren’t they pretty much divorced in all but name? Estranged. What a way to put it…

…not that it isn’t wrong. But then, a lot of things are wrong. That’s pretty much how Stan lives his life now. On the wrong side of things. Dipper and Mabel are the first time it’s really gone towards a right side. He holds the gift, eyes the box and Preston sighs sadly, “Aren’t you at least going to open it?”

Stan scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand before shrugging and opening the box. Inside is a beautiful watch. He draws it out and can’t help but whistle, “Wow…this is…this is…beautiful. Real mob boss quality.”

“Knew you’d like it,” Preston huffs, “The moment I saw it…I thought of you…”

Stan looks at him and Preston’s glassy eyes look a little more centered as he whispers, “Every year…”

He trails off. Doesn’t say more and Stan wonders if he’s succumbing to his drink again, so he nudges him, “Every year, what?”

“Every year…I buy you a gift. Both of you,” Preston swallows thickly, tears forming, “The children…they probably think I’ve forgotten our anniversary. I haven’t. I have a whole room full of gifts for both you and…”

His throat clicks audibly and Stan knows he can’t even say his name. Preston can’t say ‘Ford’ aloud. But, to be fair, it’s difficult for Stanley too. He looks down at the watch. Thinks about giving it back. Thinks about turning Preston away.

Instead he curses under his breath and puts the box down just enough to draw out the watch, to put it on his wrist, right next to the old, frayed leather cuff. Preston watches him, lips twitching and Stan doesn’t look at him as he mutters, “You better come inside. Don’t want the kids to wake up and find you down here. You can…you can sleep in your old room. If you want.”

“You…my-my room?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan grunts, “It’s got some random shit in it. Coupla wax figures and some storage crap. But your bed is-”

“What about your bed?” the words are purred and Stan feels an electrical jolt shoot up his spine. He looks at Preston who is eyeing him in a way that he hasn’t in far, far too long. Ignoring the stirrings of arousal, Stan grabs one of Preston’s lapels and drags him in. He shuts the door behind him and starts lugging him towards his old room but Preston tugs free. He runs a hand through his hair and looks so affronted that Stan feels an answering anger. Anger and pain. Pain because how can he miss this? How can he miss this prissy, narcissistic, uppity son of a-!

“ _Your_ room, Stanley,” Preston says firmly as he straightens his clothing, trying to look oh, so righteous, “Your room or I’ll shout this Shack down.”

“God, I should kick you back out ta the curb…let you wander the woods…”

“But you won’t,” Preston says with far too much certainty.  So much so that Stan wants to boot him out on principal alone. But he doesn’t. Instead he ignores those hot (gorgeous) grey eyes and growls as he charges off to his room, Preston at his heels. The moment the door is shut behind them, Stan hisses, “Fine. But you make sure you’re outta here before the kids get up! I ain’t havin’ their heads filled with any wild ideas ‘bout us getting back together!”

“I assure you, your ‘grand nibblings’ will know nothing. Neither will my child.”

“Your child…” Stan starts and wonders if he should keep going. He knows he shouldn’t. He does, “Always wanted to ask you about that. Adoptin’ a kid…don’t seem your style…”

“We shall not speak of Pacifica, any more than we shall speak of your ‘nibblings’.”

“Stop saying it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s a disease. First off, I haven’t ever called the kids that. Second, they’re not my grand nothing.”

“I’m aware,” Preston says coolly and he sits on Stan’s bed as easily as if he’s never left. As if all the bad shit between them never happened. As if he _belongs_ there and Stan’s blood heats up at the mere thought and he despises it. He’s too damned old for this shit. Still, his blood doesn’t cool at the sight of Preston leaning back on his mattress, far from it, as he continues, “They’re your immediate niece and nephew…isn’t that odd? There’s such a large age difference between you and…”

Stan cuts him off, “Can’t be helped my ma and pops knocked boots in their later days. Mom was still fertile, Dad more so – hence Shermie. ‘Sides, age differences shouldn’t shock you. Look at what your old man did.”

Preston can only shrug in agreement, “Still. You’re their uncle, yet they call you ‘Grunkle’. Odd.”

“Not really. Couple of days after first getting here, Mabel remarked on me being a super uncle. But the idea of calling me ‘Suncle’ wasn’t so hot. So then she decided I was a _great_ uncle. Hence, ‘grunkle’. And I thought it was kinda cute, so…”

“Hmm, it _is_ cute,” Preston hums and his expression…

Stan looks at him there on his bed and the heat in his blood is now a raging inferno. He looks away, ignoring how hot his cheeks feel as he grouses, “You…you better get some sleep. Night.”

He turns to leave and hears his bed springs creak as Preston leaps to his feet, hands shutting the door before Stan can open it. Preston weasels his way around Stan until his back is against the door and he’s blocking Stan’s escape. Stan’s hands are on either side of the door, on either side of Preston’s head. And Preston is right there in front of him, looking for all the world innocent, “And just where do you think you’re going?”

“Out to the couch.”

“On our anniversary? I think not.”

“Preston, I already told you – that’s over. And you’re drunk. And I’m not about to take advantage of-!” the words end as Preston takes Stan’s face in his hands and kisses him. Stan’s whole mind blanks, his body going rigged because…he’s being kissed. He can’t even remember the last time he was kissed. Who kissed him. But to be kissed now…to be kissed by Preston…

Preston angles his head, lips and tongue easily conquering Stan’s and he’s…fuck, he’s still _really_ good at this. He still kisses like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to kiss someone. It’s like he’s drawing Stan’s very life away, as if he’s setting his whole soul on fire and Stan groans because it’s just so goddamn _good_. No, better than good – _fantastic_. Phenomonal…

Preston ushers Stan back to his bed, knocks him down on it, clambers over him and rocks his hips, rolls them against Stanley’s and Stan’s hard. He doesn’t even know when _that_ happened. He hasn’t been this hard in….he can’t remember. But he’s hard now, erection bordering on painful already and it’s been too long and he’s too old and he can’t…

Preston pulls away just enough to breathe, “Please…take advantage…”

Stan snarls, rolls Preston beneath him, and begins to do just that. There’s a tiny part of his mind screaming at him, wailing at him. It tugs at its hair and tells him to stop, tells him to think. But there’s a much larger part that hollering that part down. A part that screams about how long its wanted this, how much it needs this. How its been denied and it’s aching and please, please…just a little more…

And Preston’s long fingers tangle in Stan’s long hair, tugging and pulling, wrenching his hair tie free so he can play with all of it. Stan feels it brush his shoulders, his upper back even as Preston’s mouth drops away from some of the kisses to moan in whiny breaths ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘more’. He’s gasping out about how Stan needs to ‘give it to him’ and ‘how he wants it’ and Stan finds he’s getting more primal by the moment. His mind shutting down into basic needs and he’s stripping Preston out of his clothes faster than should be humanly possible.

Preston himself doesn’t have much to go through. White tank top, flimsy sleeping shorts and Stan’s free and gloriously naked and when their bare flesh meets he practically wails with the joy of it. So much so that Stan shushes him, rolls him over and shoves him face down into his pillow as he mounts him from behind. He reaches out a shaking hand to toss through his nightstand, lubricant hidden away like the shameful secret it is and he’s not doing much for prep. He can’t. He’s too greedy, too desperate.

His fingers are trembling as they work Preston open and Preston is a writhing, noisy mess. He’s slobbering and biting at Stan’s pillow, back arching into each touch and his ass is far too firm for his age and it feels fucking great backing up into Stan’s hand. And his entrance…he’s still so perfectly tight. Still so hot and sweet and Stan knows it’s been a long time, can feel that, and knows he should do better, should go slower but he can’t, he can’t, he…

Stan lines up the plush head of his cock with the now slick crack of Preston’s ass and just slides it there, up and down, up and down, over and over, but not entering and Preston whimpers about not teasing, about just fucking doing it already. So Stan does. He surges his full, thick length deep inside and Preston squeals in delight. He sounds like a cheap whore in a back alley and Stan fucking loves it. His hands clasp over top of Preston’s, both of them clutching at the sheets as Stan quickly bottoms out.

Preston draws out a ‘yes’ as he pushes back, as he encourages Stan to ride him, moaning, “Been too long…fuck me…please, _please_ …Stanley, _darling_ …”

The ‘darling’ really throws him and Stan’s grip tightens as he starts doing just as asked. He thrusts in and out of Preston without mercy, the sound of smacking flesh terribly audible and Stan prays to god they’re quiet enough, but it’s hard. Christ, it’s so fucking hard. Preston’s body is like the perfect vise around his dick and his balls keep slapping against that firm ass and it’s been far too long since he’s been this deep inside anybody, much less this man…this man, one of the only two he’s ever loved. His husband. His prince.

Preston rises some, just to his knees, his own dick full, leaking, impressive length curled up towards his bellybutton. He reaches down and takes himself in hand, starts stroking feverently and Stan can just glimpse that all of his pubic hair is gloriously silver. Silver and glistening and Preston is biting his lips, doing his best to stifle his sounds of pleasure, as he looks back at Stan over his shoulder and fuck, fuck…

Stan’s bed is too tiny for this. Too old. It squeaks and protests beneath them. It rattles and shakes and Stan wonders very briefly if they might actually break it while they’re fucking one another’s brains out. And Stan finds he honestly doesn’t give a shit as his hands clasp themselves over Preston’s thick hips. The only part of him that has any sort of sag to it, any sort of fat, and it feels so friggin’ good that he digs his fingers in, hoping he’ll leaves bruises.

He tugs him closer, closer, needing to be as deep inside of him as possible as he captures Preston’s mouth with his own. He kisses him again, tongues wetly intermingling as he moans into it, his whole body releasing, his climax washing through him like a warm wave. He empties himself into the hot, willing body beneath him even as Preston’s climax comes, his spunk shooting out to paint the bedspread, the pillow, the _wall_ behind the bed.

They both collapse then. Preston pressed into his own mess, Stan over top of him. The air is moist, reeking with the scent of their coupling and they both lie there, basking in the gloriousness of their afterglow. Stan sucks in a breath through his nose as he withdraws his body from Preston’s and rolls to one side. He’s crammed near the wall, still pretty much on top of Preston who squirms and mumbles something that sounds like ‘gross’.

Stan snorts, “Problem, my prince?”

Preston doesn’t answer and Stan realizes that that endearment slipped out of him far too easily. Just like it did in the old days. He grumbles and grunts and gets to his feet. His knees and back immediately twinge, reminding him of his advanced age, as if they forgot during the sex, but now they can return to their status quo. The status quo of being an old fuck.

“I’m gonna shower,” Stan offers quietly, “You…you can come if you want.”

Preston doesn’t move and just when Stan’s about to leave he whispers, “Yes. I’d like that.”

They go to the shower and clean up. They barely touch one another, don’t make eye contact and when it’s done Stan finds them both clean clothes. Once dressed Stan eyes his destroyed bed and sighs, “Guess it’s the couch after all.”

“You could…come sleep with me,” Preston offers, not looking at him, “You said my bed is still accessible. I seem to recall it being considerably larger than your own…”

Stan doesn’t answer with words. Just nods. They both trundle quietly into the old, closed off room. Unlike the scent in Stan’s room, the air here is stale. Bittersweet. Neither comment though, clearly both feeling the effects of their great sexual encounter paired with their advanced age. They climb into the bed, making sure to roll away from one another.

Stan’s got about a million thoughts in his head and he’s trying to shut them all out as he reaches for sleep. Reaches, but doesn’t seem to find it and he thinks Preston already asleep when he’s surprised by a blunt, “I wasn’t that drunk.”

Stan blinks into the darkness, wonders what he should say, but Preston doesn’t seem to need any response, “I did drink a good deal tonight. But…I may have…put on more of a front than anything…”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“Thought I did.”

Preston’s answer is met with a mere snort of derision. Stanley never did like it when Preston bested him at something. Especially when that something could be construed as a con. Still, Preston is undeterred, “The children…they were trying to do us a service. But all they did was remind me of what I’ve lost…but…but I suppose it _did_ motivate me to come here tonight. To see you.”

“For sex. I get it.”

“No,” Preston counters quickly, “No. I mean…well, yes…I-I did miss that aspect of our relationship. Who wouldn’t? No, I won’t lie about that. But…I-I also wanted to give you the gift. I just…I just wanted you to have it. I went to the place where I store your anniversary gifts and-and his and I just…I couldn’t put it in there with the others. Not this year.”

Stan doesn’t know what to say to that either and he wonders if the conversation is over. He’s okay with just letting it die, right? Right? Apparently not, as his mouth runs off, “Y’know what the funny part is?”

The question is asked, greeted with silence, but still, “We didn’t hafta end up this way. After…after what happened…we-we had each other, Preston. We could of helped one another. Consoled one another. We…we didn’t have to be alone. But…you...you wouldn’t let me help you. You just left. You _left_.”

The last is laced with pure anger, with hate, and Stan’s impressed he managed to get it out so quietly. Mainly because it’s something he’s thought so many times. Over and over again. Preston _left_. And Stan tried to get him back – he did. He tried so many times and he just…he just kept getting rejected. And never with any explanation as to why.

And he honestly doesn’t expect one tonight. Which is, maybe, why he finally gets it.

“I had to. It was my fault.”

Stan blinks into the darkness. He almost sits up, almost turns on a light. He wants to look at Preston, to argue with him face to face like adults or some crap, but he’s terrified if he moves Preston will stop talking so he waits and thankfully, Preston goes on, “I loved Ford. I would do anything for him. And I did. I gave him everything he needed, that he wanted – the money, the equipment – I gave it all to him to make him happy and never considered the consequences. Not to me. Not to you…and we lost him. He’s gone and it’s my fault and I can’t…I can’t…”

“You know it’s not your fault,” Stan argues and this time he does move. He gets up and rolls over, sure he’s talking to Preston’s back in the dark, but who gives a shit, because his husband is so fucking wrong and he needs to be corrected, “Ford…he made his own choices…built that thing. None of us could have known.”

“I could have. I should have,” Preston counters, “And it cost us…all of us…so much. You, me, Fidds, Susan…it cost us because I was too foolish and too lovesick to be wiser. And I can’t…I can’t look at you without feeling the guilt of my actions.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself. I don’t blame you.”

“No. But I blame myself. And that’s enough,” Preston moves and Stan can feel him throwing the covers back, the sheets moving and panic throttles him as Preston murmurs, “This was a mistake. I should go.”

“No! Hey! Wait!” Stan catches Preston’s arms, presses his face into his back. Preston’s wearing one of his old flannel shirts and he smells like him and he feels so good. So alive and warm and here and Stan’s heart breaks that much further. God, he misses this. He misses this, misses Preston, misses Ford and their marriage. Their love and their happiness. It all feels like a bright, golden lifetime ago.

He clings to Preston and pleads, “Come on…you came all this way…left your ivory tower. Please just-just for tonight…stay with me.”

Waiting is killing him, each second ticking by like a knife to the gut. Finally, “Alright. Just for tonight.”

Preston falls back into the bed and Stan cradles him close. Neither comment on this. In fact, they don’t comment on anything. Talking is out. The only thing there is, is each other and the comforting darkness of the night.

 

+

 

Stan’s not surprised when he wakes up and Preston is long gone. Almost as if he never came. Stan trudges out of the room and goes to find that the liquor bottle is gone as well. But the watch…the watch still glitters on his wrist. He runs a gentle thumb over it even as he hears Dipper and Mabel thunder down the stairs.

Dipper nods at him, fluffy hair sticking out at odd angles and reminding him of his brother so much it hurts, “Mornin’ Grunkle Stan!”

He goes into the kitchen and he’s sure Mabel will follow suit only…she slows at the sight of him. She sways form side to side, her sparkling sweater screaming about cats or something, but she has a pensive look on her face. Something he’s never seen as she says quietly, “Hey, um, Grunkle Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh, Dipper and I were talking last night and…we’re-we’re sorry. We…we shouldn’t have been snooping through your stuff. And I…well, I was kind of the one who pushed Dipper and Pacifica into the whole date night on your old anniversary thing, so…”

She looks perfectly wretched and he can’t stand it. He ruffles her hair and gives her his biggest grin, “Don’t worry about it, Pumpkin. I get it. Ya was just tryin’ ta do something nice for me. I appreciate it. Honest.”

She looks greatly relieved, eyes shining just as much as her braces, “Really?”

“Yeah, you and your brother did more for me than you know. Just…take it easier in the future, huh? Somethings can’t be forced.”

“I know, Grunkle Stan,” Mabel assures him and she reaches up on her tip toes to hug him. Stan colors and he pats her back roughly, “Alright. That’s enough of that mushy stuff. Get on into the kitchen and I’ll whip you up somethin’ ta eat.”

Mabel bounds into the kitchen and Stan thinks of what he just told her. It’s the truth. The kids…they really did do more for him than they’ll ever know. Preston too. He touches the watch one more time, smiling fondly before making his way into the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> Written to/Inspired by Florence + the Machine 'Over the Love'. Visit me on tumblr!: http://cellard00rs.tumblr.com/


End file.
